


i am the heart that you call home

by sameboots



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, jaime lannister: human disaster, jaime will slap you with his golden hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 01:28:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18436193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sameboots/pseuds/sameboots
Summary: Jaime Lannister likes to believe he's in control of a situation. Brienne of Tarth just wants Tormund to leave her alone. Tormund doesn't know how to read a room. Jaime is left with no option but to step-in.--Brienne's shoulders were tight, her whole being radiating discomfort. Her eyes flicked to a point across the hall before she hunched in on herself, focusing once more on her meal. Jaime followed the general line of sight to find the Wilding sucking grease off of the smallest of his grimy fingers. Jaime grimaced. It was with a sinking feeling that Jaime thought, 'I can't very well let someone make Brienne feel that she needs to hide herself.'





	i am the heart that you call home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollsome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollsome/gifts).



> This story is not remotely what I intended to write. I have had a season 8 speculation fic sitting on my Google Drive account for weeks now. It's disparate scenes strung together, angsty, sad, attempting to stick close to canon. The general season 8 sort of fic. 
> 
> Abruptly, tonight, I remembered that what I really enjoy writing is fluffy, occasionally angsty, happy, light, heartwarming fic that maybe makes people feel like they've had a drink of hot cocoa. And thus, this fic was born. I started typing and I just couldn't stop typing. 
> 
> Thank you, endlessly, to dollsome for allowing me to yell at her for the past three months leading up to this final season. About Jaime, Brienne, the actors, the books, and everything in between. And for doing a very quick beta of this for me. All remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Jaime Lannister believed himself to be a man acutely aware of his own mind. That no one else agreed with this assessment was of little consequence to him. After all, Jaime was knighted at fifteen years of age due to his impressive performance on the battlefield. He was one of the youngest knights ever named to the Kingsguard. He was the finest swordsman in all of Westeros, before the incident with Vargo Hoat. He commanded armies of thousands, led men into battle with the ease and confidence of one who does not lose, trained squires into impressive soldiers, and, as evidenced by his current predicament, followed his own mind and conscience. All the way to the frost-bitten wasteland of the North. Jaime planned and then he executed.

 

Which was why his current predicament left him unmoored. It began innocently enough, training with the army of misfits that made up the barracks at Winterfell. Brienne was, naturally, by his side leading men through drills and combat strategy (though, Jaime allowed himself the pride of knowing he was superior to her in that, at least). He was in the midst of adjusting the form of a boy that looked barely old enough to sprout whiskers when he heard Brienne groan aloud. It wasn't a groan of pain, which was Jaime's first indication that something was amiss. The wench wasn't prone to griping over -- well, anything. He looked over his shoulder to find a tableau that was, at best, befuddling.

 

The ginger Wildling, his face still bruised from injuries when The Wall fell, was  _leering_ at Brienne. It took Jaime a moment to suss out what the expression was, given the swelling from the injuries, being so unused to seeing it directed at so unwilling a woman, and, frankly, directed at _this_ woman. He looked from Brienne's furrowed eyebrows to the dancing, red bushy eyebrows of the Wilding, and back again. His own brow furrowed and a queer feeling knotted his stomach.

 

Jaime, knowing his own mind, felt it imperative that he ignore the situation in favor of training. Clearly, it didn't involve him and that must be the source of his unease. Yes. He was uneasy because he was tempted to involve himself in affairs not his own. Brienne was more than capable of handling herself and the Wildling, if need be. Therefore, he had absolutely no reason to concern himself further.

 

\--

 

Jaime plopped his rough-hewn bowl next to Brienne's elbow and himself onto the bench next to her. One would be tempted to say that it was overly close, considering there wasn't anyone else to the left of her. But the hall was getting busier, therefore, Jaime was most definitely only saving himself from having to jostle and move when someone else came along.

 

"Brienne," he greeted with a nod.

 

"Ser Jaime," she replied and didn't seem inclined to continue as she stuffed an absolutely massive hunk of stale bread in her maw.

 

Jaime felt _uneasy_. As he had logically concluded it was due to being preoccupied with the situation between Brienne and the Wilding, he was determined to answer any lingering questions he had. "So." He trailed off. Brienne looked at him, that slight furrow between her brows. "The Wilding?"

 

"Was that a question?" she asked. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific. There are quite a few Wildlings in Winterfell."

 

"You and the ginger Wilding --" he trailed off, again. Suddenly finding that his years of sharpening his tongue in the courts of King's Landing were all for naught when confronted with -- with whatever it was that was this situation. He gestured vaguely with his finger at an imaginary two points, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully. When Brienne continued to simply blink at him in confusion, he huffed an annoyed breath. "He's courting you? You're being courted?"

 

"No!" Brienne looked startled at the volume of her declaration, darting her eyes around the hall as her face suffused with red.

 

"I can see the way he looks at you," Jaime said. Honestly, he was a bit offended that she acted as if it were such a ridiculous notion. "I dare say, _everyone_ can see the way he leers."

 

"Even if that were true," she said, her lip curling in a scowl when Jaime expelled a disbelieving puff of air. "Even if that _were true_ , I -- I am not _amenable_ to his advances."

 

Brienne's shoulders were tight, her whole being radiating discomfort. Her eyes flicked to a point across the hall before she hunched in on herself, focusing once more on her meal. Jaime followed the general line of sight to find the Wilding sucking the grease off of the smallest of his grimy fingers. Jaime grimaced. It was with a sinking feeling that Jaime thought, _I can't very well let someone make Brienne feel that she needs to hide herself._

 

Sometimes, being a gallant knight required putting oneself in an uncomfortable position. It was not a wholly foreign notion to Jaime. But for some reason, this position was pointedly uncomfortable.

 

\--

 

Jaime would give the ginger Wildling one thing: he was not easily dissuaded. Tormund, as he had eventually discovered after inquiring as subtly as he could, seemed determined to have Brienne as his own. He was neither charming nor handsome, nor did he have a subtle bone in his massive body. Jaime had begun to hate Tormund.

 

He supposed it might be a bit hypocritical of him. His favorite pastime had been the torment of Brienne of Tarth. But that was _his_ right. They had been _through_ things together. Very difficult things. Brienne was still the bearer of his deepest secrets, and he -- well, he was, in his estimate, likely the only man that had ever seen her fully nude. Fully nude and utterly consumed with righteous anger and indignation, all pale, taut muscle and sinew.

 

She had also saved his life more than once, prevented him from succumbing to delusions of fatalism clearly brought on by a fever, and, he would admit only to himself, shocked some sense into him in the dragonpit. Therefore, Jaime felt he owed Brienne something.  She, likely, would not thank him for interfering. She was not a woman that wanted a man defending her. Yet, she was also a woman unaccustomed to diverting the attentions of a determined suitor. Jaime had years of experience diverting men away from Cersei. He had every confidence he would manage Tormund with very little trouble.

 

"You seem to be very preoccupied with Lady Brienne," Jaime said, sidling up to Tormund in the training yard.

 

"Aye," Tormund said. He grunted in a manner that Jaime found unsettlingly suggestive.

 

"She doesn't seem to return your regard," Jaime said.

 

"She will." Tormund nodded his head determined, a lascivious smile curling the corners of his mouth. "No woman or beast can resist."

 

Jaime would rather not think too hard about the beast comment.

 

"I don't believe you know Lady Brienne too well," Jaime said. He was irrationally irritated on her behalf. Completely irrationally.

 

"Don't have to know her to fuck her."

 

Tormund chuckled. Jaime saw red. Jaime was not a man prone to losing his composure. Years of training as a soldier and more years as a Kingsguard had taught him to at least maintain an outward appearance of calm, collected determination. But in that moment, pure animal instinct took over and he backhanded Tormund Giantsbane right across his smirking, foul mouth.

 

Jaime barely had time to savor the spray of blood and tooth before he had a mass of ginger, fur-covered muscle hurtling toward him, a heavy fist landing squarely in his gut. The armor, thankfully, kept him from vomiting the contents of his midday meal into the snow, but it was a close call.

 

They rolled, they punched, they grappled. Jaime knew he would be sore later, but the righteous indignation made every blow from the meaty fists of his opponent like nothing more than the pitter-patter of rain. Well, _nearly_.

 

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the weight on top of him was gone and he was left staring at the blinding pale sky above him. Brienne had Tormund by the collar of his tunic, the scowl on her face so deep, her cheeks so red, her eyes glinting so furiously, that she was somehow the ugliest, _best_ thing he had ever seen.

 

" _Ser Jaime_ ," she said. " _What_ is the meaning of this?"

 

It was at that point that Jaime realized Brienne blamed _him_ for this fight. "Pardon?"

 

"You attacked your fellow soldier, unprovoked --"

 

" _Unprovoked_?" he asked, shooting to his feet, chest heaving with indignation.

 

"Tell me, what he could possibly have done when you were merely conversing to provoke such an attack?"

 

"He insulted you!"

 

Brienne looked confused, or maybe just annoyed. Her scowls could blend together into a general sense of irritation and aggravation.

 

"Ser Jaime," she said, with all the patience and condescension of a tired septa. "If insulting me were a punishable offense, you would not have a single tooth left in your head."

 

"This was different." Jaime scoffed, utterly baffled that Brienne could not clearly see the difference. She must know that what Tormund said was not the same as him insulting her to get a rise out of her, to create a bit of _fun_ on the unending journey to King's Landing so many years ago.

 

In truth, Jaime had not felt compelled to insult Brienne in years. It had seemed a lifetime ago that looking at her resulted in anything other than a rush of warmth and affection and _pride_. She was magnificent and honorable and deserved much more than the base language Tormund used. She was a high-born lady, a knight in all but name. _She_ was more a knight than he could ever dream of being.

 

"Oh?" Brienne said, finally loosening her grip on Tormund as the Wildling's body relaxed from fighting stance.

 

" _Yes_."

 

Jaime could feel the frustration flowing through his veins. He stepped closer to her, invading her space, drawing himself up so they were near eye-to-eye.  Jaime could see the breath curling in white wisps from between Brienne's full, chapped lips. He could trace the tightening of her throat and jaw.

 

"How is it different?" she asked, her voice thinner, quieter. She looked sad, Jaime thought. He could see her retreating into herself, could see the distance she created between herself and everyone else in her eyes.

 

Jaime was speechless. He didn't know how to make her understand. He didn't want to repeat what Tormund said. He didn't want those words out of his mouth directed at her.

 

"He made insinuations about the things he would like to do with you," Jaime finally answered. " _To_ you."

 

The flush raced down Brienne's throat, a vulnerability scattered across her face and was gone just as quickly.

 

"I can defend myself."

 

Jaime knew that. He knew it better than most. But she shouldn't _have_ to defend herself from a man she clearly had no interest in, and had made this fact apparent to everyone.

 

"Of course," Jaime said.

 

"Then I can trust you not to do such a thing again?" she asked.

 

"No," he said. He felt it viscerally, in his bones. "I can promise no such thing."

 

"Why?"

 

Jaime didn't know how to explain it. He didn't know why the one woman in all of Winterfell who needed his defense the least was the self-same woman he felt compelled to defend. He looked into her deep blue eyes, at the confusion and frustration so plain for all to see. Somehow, in that moment, it became clear to him. It wasn't wholly unlike the feeling when Tormund's fist had met his stomach. A sudden, bursting rush of, 'oh, fuck.'

 

Jaime opened his mouth as if to speak, as if words would suddenly come to him that would explain this away. An explanation that would satisfy Brienne and not leave him looking even more a fool.

 

Finding himself at a complete loss for words, Jaime did the only thing that made any sense in that moment. He leaned in, closing the small distance still separating him from Brienne and crushed his lips to hers. It was an inelegant kiss in the kindest of descriptions. It was hard, bruising, a little bit off center, his own teeth cut into his lips, so he would imagine hers did the same. In all, it was a disaster of a kiss.

  
It was not helped by Brienne jerking away from him almost immediately, staring at him in wide-eyed shock before a sound that could only be described as a guffaw emerged from her slack mouth.

 

Jaime had never heard Brienne laugh, and now he found there was a good reason for it. Her unconventional face almost split in half, her eyes verging on hysterical as she continued to very nearly bray. Jaime was, in truth, offended. It was not a good kiss, but it was hardly a kiss deserving of such hefty derision. His face twisted into an unpleasant scowl, embarrassment flushing his ears for the first time in at least 30 years. Brienne's laughter spluttered to a stop, amusement and confusion and fear battling for dominance.

 

 _"What_?" This was the only thing she said when she finally spoke. One word, a question, sharp and disbelieving.

 

"Because," Jaime began, clenching his hand into a fist, frustrated that his tongue was failing him when he needed it most. "Because I'm the only one allowed to say such things to you. Because I _want_ to be the only one allowed to do this."

 

And with that he placed his good hand against her cheek, tilted his head and pressed another kiss to her lips. This one softer, gentler, a caress to ease her into the feeling of his mouth, his beard scratching at the tender skin. He could hear the sharp breath she sucked in. He brushed his thumb along her cheek, rubbing gently at the corner of her mouth, coaxing her to relax. His tongue trailed along her lower lip, tasting the sharp cold air and slight metallic tang of blood from when she bit into her chapped lips in concentration. But oh, she was soft, and she was warm, and this kiss felt like settling into a feather bed after months on the road. It felt like the first drink of spiced wine on a cold winter night. It felt like the home he'd never known.

 

He broke the contact, dragging air into his suddenly breathless lungs. Their foreheads still touching, his hand still pressed to her cheek. He slowly opened his eyes to find her staring at him in something approaching wonder.

 

" _Jaime_ ," she whispered.

 

The grin spilled across his face, bright and shining. She said his name. Just his name. It was all the answer he needed. They could discuss the finer points later, and he was sure Brienne would have words for him when she finally remembered they were in full view of all their soldiers, one glaring Wildling among the bunch. But for now, he was content to step fully into her body and drag her mouth back to his for as long as she would let him.

**Author's Note:**

> I fear this story may be a little overly influenced by my complete submersion in Game of Thrones Season 8 promo. Certainly, I was compelled by Gwendoline Christie's incomparable laugh to include it as part of Brienne's reaction to Jaime's kiss. Part of me just craved a Brienne that doesn't immediately react with either A) acceptance or B) suspicion/hurt/tears. 
> 
> That being said, I am well aware this is a very silly fic. But I think the world needs silly fics on occasion.


End file.
